


man on fire

by laedymoonarchive



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:07:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26263927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laedymoonarchive/pseuds/laedymoonarchive
Summary: --- this is a repost of a fic originally published on my tumblr. i no longer use it and am slowly getting rid of my posts, so everything i've written is being archived here ---premise: roger hasn’t been himself lately - he’s been feeling uneasy. hollow. and you’re the only person he can think to turn to.warnings: angst, angst, swearing, alcohol etc, modern day Queen au, roger’s povwordcount: 3.2k
Relationships: Roger Taylor (Queen)/Reader
Kudos: 4





	man on fire

**Author's Note:**

> \--- this is a repost of a fic originally published on my tumblr. i no longer use it and am slowly getting rid of my posts, so everything i've written is being archived here ---
> 
> premise: roger hasn’t been himself lately - he’s been feeling uneasy. hollow. and you’re the only person he can think to turn to.
> 
> warnings: angst, angst, swearing, alcohol etc, modern day Queen au, roger’s pov 
> 
> wordcount: 3.2k

“we’re closing in ten, mate.” the barkeep slid roger taylor his bill over the lacquered bench.

the young blonde nodded a reply, shoving his phone at the eftpos machine and waiting for the beep before slipping off his barstool.

even though the drinks were overpriced, the vodka was weak and the music playing from the _created by spotify_ playlist was shitty, roger was reluctant to leave. the thought of heading back to his flat - alone or otherwise - was making him feel… unsafe. _uneasy_.

and hopping between hole-in-the-wall pubs and dodgy dive bars didn’t hold as much appeal as usual, either. but where else could he go? it seemed that all his mates were preoccupied lately. brian may; camped out on the roof of his flat with his eye pressed to a telescope, searching for some bloody cone of light that “proved his entire thesis”.

freddie bulsara, strapped to his sewing machine, piecing together silk and jewels and bejeweled fuckin spandex for his next show-costume, or scribbling lyrics into the notebook he only ever let brian have a peek at.

and john deacon, rogers first port of call for a night in, who, usually to rogers chagrin, was always happy at home. but deaky’s been out of the question lately, too - always canoodling with his new bird (veronica, was that her name?) or twiddling away at some amp with a screwdriver.

who did he really have left when he’d stripped away the three of them? he thought, scrolling through the contacts on his phone.

_shagged her_

_shagged her_

_shagged her flatmate_

_told him to go shove it last friday_

_snogged on his girlfriend while i was sloshed_

his thumb stopped at your name - one of the few contacts he had that was decorated with loved up emojis.

_of course_ , you.

roger and yourself hadn’t spoken in almost three weeks - a long stretch of silence between friends who usually couldn’t stop talking.

_words_. that’s what you’d first bonded over, debating brexit and renewable energy and the indie rock revolution until your mouths were dry and you were both hankering for a beer.

he’d always found you bloody perplexing. how you were sweet - even a little shy - but with such stubborn, fierce opinions. stances that were both passionate and well thought out, and ones you could argue for hours on end. he knew that only too fuckin’ well.

he’d never forget the day you’d been peacefully taking notes beside him in class, methodically filling pages with your pretty cursive, until you’d heard some wanker in front of you spouting his views on same sex marriage. the fire in your eyes and the unforgiving edge in your tone as you’d torn strips off his pathetically stuttering arguments had earnt you the kind of respect that roger rarely awarded those he hadn’t known for long. 

you were the only girl roger had ever been _friends_ with. one of the few that he hadn’t attempted to chat up or seduce back to his dorm room. it wasn’t that he didn’t find you attractive; in fact, roger was yet to meet a girl that he didn’t find somewhat beautiful, and you were definitely no exception. it was simply that, whenever he was around you, roger’s flirtatious ploys were derailed by distractingly good conversation - sharp wit and warm laughs and general enjoyment of each other’s company. 

_so why haven’t you texted her lately, you prick? why’ve you been avoiding her at uni?_

what was it - rejection issues? commitment? intimacy? what was the unexplainable urge that roger got to self destruct any relationship with a girl that went beyond quick fucks and booty calls?

roger really, _really_ didn’t feel like doing some freudian analysis of himself at that minute, and he doubted you would either. but his head hurt, and the door to the pub was shutting behind him, and taking his chances with you seemed like a better option than wandering the streets. 

your flat was a fairly short walk - twenty minutes, at the most. but, although everything else inside of him was tangled and twisted, roger knew one thing. he didn’t at all feel like being alone with his thoughts. he pulled his phone from his back pocket once again and sent for an uber, the ping of confirmation a reassurance that he’d soon be in your company. 

_hopefully she won’t slam the door in your face._

——————– 

“oh. hello.” your voice was surprised -you hadn’t seen much of roger in almost a month, after all- but soft. and you looked soft, too; wrapped up in your favourite green cardigan, so delicate and warm and familiar that tears sprung to rogers eyes. his head began to ache.

_fuck, rog. keep it together._

roger meddows taylor didn’t cry.

not in front of his mum, not in front of his friends, and certainly not in front of pretty girls from his biology class.

“christ, are you alright rog?” your voice was full of concern as rogers expression fell.

you’d seen him look pissed, tired, drunk off his nut. but never so _sad_. like there was something eating at his insides.

“yeah.” roger ducked his head. “just- **couldn’t sleep. can i stay here** for a bit?”

_please say yes_. you furrowed your brows and bit your lip as you looked at him. _and please don’t ask what’s wrong._

“course.” you nodded and stepped to the side so roger could pass. he could feel your eyes on the back of his blonde head as he made his way to the couch and collapsed, his head falling into his hands.

roger knew he looked the picture of despondency, but really, he was too exhausted to care. if he could just _sit_ , just be near you for a bit - maybe he could let his head clear.

“can i ask?” you said softly.

“don’t think i can answer.” roger exhaled, finally looking at you. and, fuck, it didn’t help.

he’d just composed himself - but you looked so cautious, gentle, like he was some skittish child you were trying not to frighten. screw holding it together. fuck bottling it up.

all that emptiness in roger’s chest seemed to expand into his throat, escaping in a sob that made his shoulders quiver.

he fucking hated crying - hadn’t done it since he was just a kid and his mate put a foot through his first bass drum. he hated how it clouded his eyes, already found it bloody hard enough to see. hated how everyone could see it, emotions spilling over in red cheeks and shuddering breaths. he hated the impassioned “what’s wrong?” that always followed. hated having to attempt to explain his feelings, ones he could barely understand in the first place.

“oh, love.” roger felt your soft fingertips on his jaw and a hand on his back.

_what have you gotten yourself into?_

“‘m fine, y/n.” he turned himself away, his voice thick with distress.

“fuck, will you let me hug you, you idiot?” you chuckled, though your voice was sad.

roger didn’t look at you again. he couldn’t. but he turned back, allowing himself just a few more sobs with his head pressed to your shoulder and your arms wrapped around him. christ, you were warm, and he wanted to sink into you. just feel comforted. feel _full_.

but he could feel you shifting under him. you were confused, roger could tell. and so you had a bloody right to be. he’d been a wanker.

_avoiding her for weeks and then expecting her to be your shoulder to cry on? poor form, even for you mate._

“thank you.” roger muttered, pulling away before you could. “think i got mascara on your shirt.” perhaps, if he deflected the conversation onto humor you’d let him off the hook.

“i’ve always wondered how you get your lashes so lovely.” you smiled.

_surely it won’t be that easy_. roger scrutinised. you were delicate, but stubborn. you might have been planning on dancing around it, but you were almost definitely going to get to the point at some stage.

“rog, why’re you here?”

“i just wanted to see you.” he said simply. that much, he did know. seeing you had been like one giant exhale. like he’d been holding his breath for months.

“did something happen? are you alright.”

_deflect_. _avoid_.

“peachy. just been a bit stressed, is all. could do with a cuppa?” roger pushed off the couch and turned for the kitchen.

“stressed?” your disbelief was obvious.

_keep it light. make her forget that you broke in front of her._

“yeah. uni, the band, all that. don’t know how i deal with that lot.” _keep talking_ , roger urged himself as he begun searching your cabinets for tea bags, even though he knew exactly where you kept them.

you know brian fucking forgot his bloody guitar the other day?” _that’s good._ he moved to scouring the bench tops.

rolled up empty handed and only realised when we started giving’m shit for it.” roger pulled open the top drawer under the sink triumphantly and looped two tea bags around his index finger. “english breakfast? ‘s morning now, anyway.”

you nodded. roger didn’t have you fooled, and he could tell.

“milk?” he asked, shaking a carton from the fridge. “and sugar?” a pointless line of questioning, really; just more distractions. he knew how you took your tea - strong, hot and sugary.

“yeah. but roger?” your tone was even.

“mm?” roger leveled his gaze on filling the kettle exactly to the 300ml mark, squinting as though it required all the concentration he had.

“i don’t want to push you…” he could sense your presence, closer to him than before.

“how the fuck do you set this kettle?” he muttered under his breath, his cheeks turning hot at your gaze.

you took it from his hands and set it on the stove, the blue flame flickering alight under your touch and making the pale, half dried trails of tears on rogers cheeks glisten.

“like i said, i don’t want to push you… but you’ve got me worried, _rogie_.”

rogie. only his mum called him that. and freddie, when he was attempting to pester him out of a bad mood.

“worried?”

play dumb, that’ll fuckin work.

“i’ve never seen you cry, roger. not even when you broke your thumb tryin’ to beat fred at table tennis.” roger chuckled at that. but your expression of concern didn’t falter.

“i told you.” he turned to the screeching kettle and poured its contents into the mugs you’d set out - a watercolour of a light house sitting upon stormy seas painted on yours and a cartoon drum kit superimposed onto the one you’d bought especially for roger’s visits. “‘m stressed.”

it came out barely a whimper. _say it more unconvincingly._

“roger, you don’t sleep. you’re always stressed. but this-” you brought your thumb to roger’s cheek. “-isn’t like you.”

roger shook his head. you’d said you wouldn’t push him, and he knew he could politely tell you to fuck off if he really didn’t want to talk about it. but perhaps it would feel _good_ to have you listen. perhaps he’d come to you because he knew you’d get it out of him. perhaps he _wanted_ to talk about it. he’d let everything out, just for a second when he’d cried and tied it all back up again into a knot only a minute later. and although the erraticity of keeping himself so guarded was making him feel as exhausted and twitchy as when he went a day without a cigarette, it had felt good to let go for a split second, hadn’t it?

“you’re fuckin telling me.” roger said softly, a little bit of submission.

“hey, i didn’t mean you shouldn’t have.” your eyes turned wide, worried you’d said something wrong.

“yeah, y/n. i know.” roger assured you.

your gaze stayed imploring.

_just tell her. just talk to her. you’ve got nothing to lose now._ roger inhaled sharply, his words came out breathy and stilted.

“dunno. just been feeling… bad. lately. christ, ‘ve always been shit at this.”

“at what?” you slid up onto your bench top and crossed your legs, patting the spot in front of you. 

roger ducked his head and folded himself up next to you. “talking.”

“you never shut up, rog.”

“about _this stuff_ i mean. saying how i feel.”

“i’m not great at it either.”

“bullshit.” roger snorted “‘member that time you spent three hours crying with freddie over that paul guy?”

you laughed and shook your head. “that’s different. that’s surface level stuff. just don’t overthink it, okay?”

roger nodded, reaching to play with a loose thread hanging off your fluffy bed socks so he wouldn’t have to look at you. “just feel a bit _empty_.”

that wasn’t too bad, actually. almost felt like a bit of a release. and so he continued.

“feel… like i can’t be alone - it makes me uneasy. hate just listening to my thoughts. and it’s like, as long as i surround myself with distractions; girls, the band, getting pissed every other night, i don’t have to.

but those _distractions_. they don’t work anymore. just remind of what they are. how i’ve got nothing else.”

you spoke for the first time in a while, and roger dropped his thread to look at you. “what do you mean you’ve got nothing else?”

“like… brian’s got his space stuff. freddie’s got his lyrics. john’s all loved up. what’ve i got? besides being a man-slut, i mean.” he said the last part more bitterly than he’d meant to, and you recoiled slightly. you’d teased him on at least a few occasions about his many conquests.

_piss off the one person who seems to actually care. good fucking one._

“i-fuck. i didn’t mean it like that.” roger groaned slightly. “i know i get around. unfair of me to expect i won’t get called out for it.”

“hey, it’s alright.” you placed a hand on roger’s knee, your turn to reassure him. “i told you to be honest.”

“well that’s it really. s’like i said - i just feel hollow.” roger shrugged. there it all was. flushed out of him like the time he’d had his stomach pumped after slightly too big of a night several saturdays ago. and yet, he felt exactly the same as he did when an amused brian had escorted him out of the hospital - dizzy, nauseous and _still fucking empty._

roger pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes. fuck, wasn’t he supposed to be feeling better right about now?

“but that’s not all you’ve got.” you spoke softly, as though you could tell that any sound louder would irritate the headache growing in roger’s temples.

“i’m sure this isn’t anything you don’t get told by groupies every saturday night, but i think you need to hear it from someone who’s not trying to get in your pants.”

“what, you’re not interested in blokes who come sobbing to your door at two am?” it was almost a joke, but rogers expression was humourless.

“shut up. i’m about to give you some compliments.” you scolded.

“lay ‘em on me.” roger sighed. you were right about the groupies, that was for sure. how many times he’d had hollow praise thrown at him from across the bar, girls applauding his drumming without being able to name a single song the band had played. fawning over his blonde hair and blue eyes without asking his name.

the lads would hear none of it when he lamented. “boo hoo.” brian would pout. “all the girls think i’m too pretty, _save me fred._ ” roger would flip them off as they collapsed into giggles, shoving freddie away as he slid onto his lap and pawed at his chest, begging him to take him home.

“you’re brilliant, roger. do you know what a chore it is to keep up with you?” you went on. “i’ve actually had to start reading those news articles you’re always texting me.” 

roger smiled at that.

“and i don’t just mean at college. you’re a shit hot drummer. like something really, really special - can’t imagine being able to do anything as well as you play the drums.”

the corners of his mouth turned up a little, and so you persisted. 

and the boys, they might be distracted at the moment but they’d chop their bloody right arms off for you, rog. _they love you._ have you told them that somethings not right?”

roger shrugged, his head down again. “ i know that. i just… think i wanted them to ask.”

“and what about me? did you want me to ask?”

“don’t think so.”

you shook your head in confusion. “so why’d you come to me?”

“ **you make me feel safe** , i s’pose.”

“really?”

“yeah. think of you and i just feel… warm. secure.”

“oh, that’s _hot_.” you teased, shoving roger’s shoulder.

“excuse me for not being shallow. you’re _so_ sexy, y/n. very pretty.” roger drawled his words sarcastically, feeling a little more like himself. “that what you wanted?” 

you hummed approvingly, fluttering your lashes “you’re very pretty too, rog.” roger somewhat regretted his satirical tone as he’d complimented you. 

_just put it away for now, roger._

“am not.” roger huffed, though he didn’t mind the label so much when it came fondly instead of as a jibe. 

“false. your face looks like a snapchat filter.” 

“you’re bitchy when you’re tired.” roger jibed with a gasp.

“speaking of- time for bed.” you uncrossed your legs and slid off the benchtop.

“oh, does that mean i can stay?” 

“of course. i‘m not going to kick you out at this hour in london. pretty thing like you wouldn’t last two seconds. c’mon.”

“we didn’t drink our tea.” roger whined as he followed you out of the kitchen.

you waved your hand dismissively while the other rubbed at your eyes. “i’m too knackered.”

roger pouted. “‘m having that tea tomorrow.”

“i’ll make you all the tea you want, as long as you don’t wake me up before ten.” you assured him, pushing open the door to your room and collapsing onto the double bed.

roger bent down at the foot, collecting a blanket and searching for a pillow.

“what’re you doing?” you mumbled, your face already buried in cushions.

“trynna find a pillow to take to the couch.”

you rolled over and sighed. “don’t be daft. c’mere.”

“you don’t have to, y/n. i’m okay, really.” roger protested, though he wasn’t sure why. not even a good, long smoke seemed as appealing as falling into bed next to you right now, but he was fairly certain your actions were out of pity. concern.

“well i’m not, then. want a cuddle or i won’t be able to sleep.”

_fuck, you were lovely to him._

“you’re so very needy, y/n.” roger conceded, kicking off his pink converse and settling next to you.

“i am.” you agreed, humming softly as roger wrapped his arms around you from behind. 

okay, so roger knew it was naive to think that you’d fixed everything. that he’d wake up in the morning with a new lease on life, all the holes inside him plugged. but you’d made him feel warm and secure and _okay_ \- even if it was just for a few hours. that was more than he’d felt in a while. 

“thank you.” he muttered, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“love you, rog,” you whispered. “anytime.”


End file.
